Harry Potter:The Boy Who Cooked
by poisedwalrus
Summary: After all, isn't cooking a sort of magic in itself? In which Hogwarts is a culinary school, Harry is a chef, and everyone is obsessed with cooking. No magic. Chef!AU
1. Chapter 1:The Boy Who Cooked

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling. Much of this work contains parts of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. Anything recognizable belongs to JK Rowling. **

"Ah, go boil yer heads, both of yeh. Not that you'd make very good broth anyway," scoffed Hagrid. "Harry—yer a chef."

Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon looked scandalized. Harry gaped from where he had been making no-bake cookies out of his bag of chips and banana.

"I'm a _what_?" he gasped.

"A chef, o' course," Hagrid replied kindly, "With a mum an' dad like yours, how could yeh not be one? It's in yer blood. An' if yeh need more proof, here." Hagrid took a thick, yellowed envelope out of one of his coat pockets.

Harry reached out for the letter reverently and carefully unsealed it. Inside it read:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL

OF

EXEMPLARY CULINARY SKILLS

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

_(Head Chef and founder of Michelin three star restaurant Socks, owner of restaurant chain Lemon Drops, six time British Culinary Federation Chef of the Year)_

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Exemplary Culinary Skills. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on September 1. We await your message of acceptance by no later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall,

_Deputy Headmistress_

"Don' worry about the message of acceptance," said Hagrid, "I'll give McGonagall the word."

Harry was stunned, his cookies abandoned on the floor of the hut. He felt quite sure that there had been a horrible mistake.

It was true that he had been cooking for the Dursleys since he could hold up a pan. And he did have to work with a lot of food creatively to be able to feed himself an appetizing meal with what Aunt Petunia gave him. But he couldn't be a chef. Chefs were clean and professional and made beautiful looking dishes. He was the farthest thing from that. If he was a chef, why did Aunt Petunia always look at his food as if it had maggots in it? How could he have been accepted in one of the most prestigious culinary schools in the world if he hadn't enrolled or sent out an application?

"Hagrid," he said softly, "I think there must have been a mistake. I don't think I can be a chef."

To his surprise, Hagrid chuckled.

"Not a chef, eh? Never made great dishes when you were inspired or under pressure?"

Harry pondered this for a moment. Now that he thought about it…hadn't the tea biscuits he made one time been copiously praised by the neighborhood ladies at one of Aunt Petunia's get togethers? And the latkes he had cooked one year in primary school had also been received enthusiastically...and Uncle Vernon and Dudley always ate so much at every meal...they were actually horribly out of weight, weren't they? Because they couldn't get enough of his cooking?

Harry smiled and looked back at Hagrid to find him beaming as well.

"See?" said Hagrid. "Harry Potter, not a chef—you wait, you'll be right famous at Hogwarts."

~~~0~~~

Later, when they were making their way off the island, Harry couldn't help but pepper Hagrid with his questions, even though he looked positively seasick despite the way he tried not to look over the sides of the small motorboat.

"My parents, they weren't famous were they?" Harry asked.

Hagrid stared wildly at Harry. "Not famous? Yer parents were some of the finest chefs in the culinary world! Their restaurant, Godric's Hollow, was successful enough that it was on its way to gettin' its second Michelin star, even though it had only been open fer two years."

An image suddenly appeared in Harry's head. It was a golden light basking down on red upholstery, the light reflecting off a row of shiny new pans. This he remembered more clearly than ever before—and he remembered something else too, for the first time: the crackling sound of something being seared.

Hagrid was looking at him sadly, but Harry didn't know why.

"But what happened? Why did they leave?" _Why did they leave me with the Dursleys?_ Harry added silently.

Hagrid looked like he was about to explode. "Those Dursleys really told you nothin', huh?" He ran a hand through his hair, which actually looked like it had camembert sauce in it, and the anger faded from his face. He suddenly looked anxious.

"I never expected this," he sighed, "an' I'm probably not the right person to—but someone's gotta tell yeh—better me than some of the other sorts you'll find in the culinary world."

Harry nodded encouragingly.

Hagrid stared into space for a few moments before beginning. "It begins, I suppose, with, with a person called, well, I don' like sayin' the name if I don't need to. No one does."

"Why?"

"Good Gordon Ramsey, Harry, people are still scared 'cause its supposed to be really bad luck. Blimey, this is difficult. See, there was this chef who went...bad. As bad as you could go. Worse. Worse than worse. His name was…"

Hagrid took a deep breath and visibly braced himself.

"Voldemort. An' don' make me say it again. Most of the culinary world calls him You-Know-Who or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

"Voldemort?" Harry snorted, "Isn't that name a bit strange?"

"Nah, yeh see, Harry, all food critics have strange pseudonyms."

"So he became a food critic?"

"Yes," Hagrid shuddered,"and he crushed many good restaurants to show off his power. About twenty years ago now, this chef started lookin' fer followers on Instagram. Wanted to take over the culinary world. Got'em, too—some were afraid, some just wanted a bit o' his influence, 'cause he was gettin' himself influence, all right. Dark days, Harry. Didn't know who to trust, didn't dare share recipes or techniques with strange chefs. He was takin' over. 'Course, some chefs stood up to him, but he destroyed their restaurants' reputations. Horribly. One o' the only safe places left was Hogwarts. Reckon Dumbledore's the only one You-Know-Who was afraid of critiquing."

"Now, yer mum an' dad were some of the best chefs I ever knew. Head boy an' girl at Hogwarts in their day! Suppose the myst'ry is why You-Know-Who never tried to get 'em on his side. Probably knew they were too close to Dumbledore to want anythin' to do with his cooking style or critiquing."

"Maybe he thought he could persuade 'em...maybe he just wanted 'em outta the way. All anyone knows is, he turned up at Godric's Hollow on Halloween ten years ago. Yeh were just a year old. He ate there at dinner an'—an'—"

Hagrid pulled out an oven mitt and blew his nose.

"Sorry," he continued, "But it's that sad. Yeh couldn't find nicer people than Lily and James Potter."

"You-Know-Who ran a smear campaign against Godric's Hollow in all the major newspapers, accusing them of bad practices and horrible sanitation conditions as well as stealing recipes. Less an' less people began to eat there, and that's when yer mother took yeh and your father and challenged You-Know-Who to a cook off."

"Now no one knows what quite happened there 'cause the cook off was private. All anyone knows is that You-Know-Who tried to critique yer mum's final dish, but he couldn't do it. He was furious that yer mum could cook a better dish than he could. Ever wonder how you got that mark on yer forehead? That was no ordinary cut. That's what yeh get when a broken teacup gets thrown at yeh. An' that's why yer famous, Harry. Yer parents sued You-Know-Who for assault and battery. But it was too late for Godric's Hollow. It went bankrupt, an' yer parents immigrated to Somalia to start up a new chain of restaurants, leaving you here to attend Hogwarts. You've been enrolled since you were born, yeh know."

Harry still had hundreds of questions to ask.

"But what happened to Vol—sorry, I mean, You-Know-Who?"

"Disappeared. Vanished. Same day he was sued for hitting yeh with his broken teacup. Makes yeh even more famous. That's the biggest myst'ry, see...he was gettin' more an' more powerful. Why'd he go?"

~~~0~~~

Harry whipped his head back and forth, trying to look at everything at once. It was his first time in London, and his first time in the legendary Diagon Alley, where only the best cooking supplies were available. There were shops full of stainless steel pots, ladles, spatulas, measuring spoons, cake pans, and other cooking utensils he had never seen before.

"Gringotts," said Hagrid, snapping Harry back into focus.

It was there at the bank that Harry found out that his parents had practically left him a fortune in his trust vault, more money than he knew what to do with. Hagrid also had business at Gringotts, involving a strange package that pretty much just looked like a rectangle. Harry's momentary curiosity in what the package contained was quickly washed away again by the awe he felt looking at the shops in Diagon Alley.

They were running a bit short on time, as the sun was beginning to drop below the rooftops of the buildings, so Hagrid went to help Harry buy the rest of his supplies, leaving him alone to brave Madam Malkin's Aprons for All Occasions.

Harry entered the store, feeling very nervous.

"Hogwarts, dear?" asked a woman. He assumed it was Madam Malkin. "Got the lot here," she continued, "Another young man being fitted up just now, in fact."

In the back of the shop, a boy with a pale pointed face was also being fitted for some proper cooking gear. Madam Malkin stood Harry next to him, slipped an apron over his head, and began to pin it to the right length.

"Hello," said the boy, "Hogwarts, too?"

"Yes," said Harry.

"My father's next door buying my books and mother's up the street looking at madeline pans," said the boy. He had a bored, drawling voice. "I don't see why students can't take specifically French cooking classes until third year. I think I'll bully father into letting me bring my own berceau anyway. I'll smuggle it in somehow."

Harry was strongly reminded of Aunt Petunia.

"Have _you_ ever made a coq au vin?" the boy went on.

"No," said Harry.

"Cook French at all?"

"No," Harry said again.

The boy looked scandalized.

"You _haven't_?" the boy sneered, "Don't your parents have any sense at all?"

"They've been in Somalia for ten years," said Harry shortly.

"Oh, sorry," said the boy, not sounding sorry at all. "But they were _our_ kind, weren't they?"

"They were chefs, if that's what you mean."

"I really don't think they should let the other sorts in, do you? They're just not the same. They've never been brought up to know our ways. Some of them have to actually apply to Hogwarts, imagine. I think they should keep it in the traditional cooking families. What's your surname, anyway?"

Thankfully, before Harry could answer, Madam Malkin said, "That's you done, my dear," and Harry, happy for an excuse to stop talking to the boy, quickly paid for his new clothing and began to leave.

"Well, I'll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose," said the drawling boy.

Harry was quite unsettled by this new side of the culinary world he had just seen.

~~~0~~~

"Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh very good. Well, well, well...how curious...how very curious…"

Mr. Ollivander put Harry's pan back into its box and wrapped it in brown paper, still muttering, "Curious...curious…"

"Sorry," said Harry, slightly worried that he picked a broken pan or something, "but _what's _curious?"

Mr. Ollivander fixed Harry with his pale stare.

"I remember every pan I've ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single pan. It so happens that the metal which your pan is made of was enough to make one other pan—just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should choose this pan when its brother—why, its brother was chosen by the one who gave you that scar."

Harry gulped.

"Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches in diameter. Yew handle. Curious indeed how these things happen. The chef chooses the pan that fits them best, remember...I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter...After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things—terrible, yes, but great."

Harry didn't think he liked Mr. Ollivander so much.

~~~0~~~

Hagrid helped Harry, laden down with heavy equipment, onto the train that would take him back to the Dursleys, then handed him an envelope.

"Yer ticket fer Hogwarts," he said. "All the info's on yer ticket. Any problems with the Dursleys, text me. Here's my number. See yeh soon, Harry."

Harry didn't mention his lack of a cell phone.

As the train pulled out of the station, Harry sat back into his seat, exhausted, and let the day's events sink in. He couldn't help but let a well of happiness and excitement pool up in his chest.

He was going to Hogwarts!


	2. Chapter 2:The Boy Who Sorted

He was going to Hogwarts only if he could find the train on time.

Harry pushed his baggage cart in front of him, panicking more and more as time went on and he couldn't find his train. He had examined his ticket about a hundred times, but he still couldn't navigate the station well. This was his first time at King's Cross; it was very overwhelming.

His heavy cooking equipment wasn't helping either. Harry considered asking someone for directions to his platform, but most of the people seemed busy or irritated. Many were talking on their cellphones or had earbuds in. Harry continued to try to maneuver through the station even as he began to feel his heart pounding in his throat. His palms started to sweat.

Harry glanced at the clock. It was getting dangerously close to eleven. What if he didn't make the train in time? Could he get Uncle Vernon to drive him to Wales? And why was finding his platform so hard? Was his train hidden inside a secret passageway or something?

Troubled by these increasingly flustered thoughts, Harry didn't notice the brick column between two of the platforms until he had smacked into it, sending many carefully wrapped pieces of cooking equipment crashing to the ground. Blushing under the stares of the many people who paused to look at him, Harry hurriedly began to pick up his packages. He was surprised to see two pairs of hands helping him.

"Hogwarts, too?" a voice said, and Harry quickly looked up, only to find that he probably had hit the barrier harder than he thought, since he was seeing double. Two freckled red-haired boys were grinning down at him, and Harry was quick to correct his previous thought: they were probably twins. He then remembered the question.

"Yes," Harry voiced out. "But, erm, I don't know, well—how to get to the platform?" he finished nervously.

"Oh," the first boy grinned. "It is a bit tricky. But not to worry," he dumped the rest of Harry's luggage back onto his cart, "We'll take you there. C'mon, Fred."

The twins began to walk off into the crowd, and Harry quickly followed, not wanting to get lost when he had finally found someone who would help him. He weaved through the throng of people and went behind a rather large wall he had assumed was the end of the station, only to find a huge scarlet steam engine and a platform packed with families and children, all carrying oddly shaped packages like his own.

"Well, here it is. The Hogwarts Express. Best be getting on soon, though. All the good compartments will be gone soon," said the second boy.

"Thanks," said Harry, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

"What's that?" one of the twins pointed at Harry's lightning scar.

The other twin gasped. "Blimey—are you—?"

"He has to be," said the first twin excitedly, "Aren't you?" He turned on Harry.

"Er, what?" Harry asked.

"_Harry Potter_," chimed the twins.

"Oh, him," said Harry, "I mean." He flushed slightly. "Yes, I am."

The twins gawked at him, and Harry felt more and more mortified as time went on and no one spoke. Then one of them asked if he wouldn't mind being in their selfie.

"By the way," the twin said as he pulled out a battered flip phone, "I'm Fred Weasley."

"And I'm George Weasley," added the other. They both leaned in closer to Harry, who tried his best not to look like a deer caught in headlights as they snapped the photo.

"Lee will be _so _jealous," Fred muttered under his breath. The twins helped Harry put his trunk and equipment into an empty compartment before being called away by a plump red-haired woman, who Harry assumed was their mum.

Harry shrank back into his seat, suddenly feeling drained. If this was what fame was like, he was pretty sure he didn't like it.

~~~0~~~

As the train started to move, Harry began to feel a bit giddy again. He still couldn't believe that he was going to study cooking at Hogwarts! It was a dream come true. However, he still couldn't help but feel a little bit of apprehension eating at him. He felt drastically unprepared for this entry into what was most likely a world of complicated dishes and sophisticated techniques.

Suddenly, the door of the compartment slid open, and another red-headed boy stepped in. Harry couldn't help but wonder if the culinary world was just filled with an overwhelming amount of freckly ginger giants.

"Anyone sitting here?" the boy asked. "Everywhere else is full."

Harry shook his head, and the boy sat down with an audible sigh of relief. He had been carrying what looked like to be a heavy iron pot that had already seen its best days.

"Hey, Ron."

The twins had come back.

"We'll be down near the middle of the train if you need us. Lee Jordan's saying he's got a candy made out of a giant tarantula down there."

"'Kay," Ron mumbled.

"Harry," said the other twin, "this is our brother Ron. He may seem shy—"

"Or rude—"commented the first twin.

"Or a little bit prickish over all—"

"Maybe not just a little bit…"

"Shut up!"

"—but he's a good kid. Play nice, you two."

"Just get out already!" Ron slammed the compartment door shut and sat back down. Harry noted that his ears were rather red.

Ron fidgeted. "Sorry 'bout them. But," he blurted out, "are you really Harry Potter?"

It seems that Fred and George had mentioned their encounter at the station to their family. Harry nodded slowly.

"And—do you have the…?" Ron gestured vaguely at his own forehead.

Harry pulled back his bangs to show Ron the lightning scar. He gaped, but seemed to realize it was rude and quickly shut his mouth.

"So that's where You-Know-Who—?"

"Yes," said Harry.

Ron looked like he wanted to ask more questions on this topic, but visibly restrained himself, which Harry was grateful for.

About as fascinated with Ron as Ron was with him, Harry asked, "Are all your family chefs?"

"Er, yes, I think so," answered Ron, "We might have a few cousins who became art majors or accountants, but they don't really come around a lot."

"So you must know loads of cooking already."

The Weasleys were obviously one of those traditional cooking families the pale boy from Diagon Alley had talked about.

"Well," Ron looked rather embarrassed, "I wasn't really interested in cooking when I was young. Liked eating a good deal better. But it grew on me."

Harry nodded understandingly. Many good chefs were good eaters first.

The boys continued to chat, and before Harry knew it, it was half past twelve and a food cart had arrived.

Having not had breakfast, Harry endeavored to try to buy the lot of the cart, but he didn't recognize most of the snacks. He just bought a bit of everything and dumped it on the seat next to him.

Ron's eyes widened. "Hungry, are you?"

"Starving," Harry replied.

Ron pulled out a slightly squashed, but still delicious looking sandwich. He examined it critically before sighing. Harry looked at him in question.

"Corned beef," Ron explained, "I must have taken Percy's sandwich by accident." He seemed quite disappointed.

"Swap you for one of these," Harry waved a package of jelly beans, one of the only things he had recognized.

"You don't want this," Ron frowned, "Percy always makes things too dry."

"Go on," Harry encouraged. "I bought more than I can finish."

Sharing his pasties, cakes, and candies with Ron was a new experience. Harry never had friends to eat with before this, and it gave him a very nice feeling, kind of like haddock chowder is his stomach.

"So," Harry said in between bites, "You have a lot of brothers, then?"

Ron swallowed before answering, "Five." For some reason, he was looking a little gloomy. "And a little sister," he added.

"That must be fun," Harry said desperately to try and lift the mood, though it just seemed to make Ron feel even more down.

"It's really not, you know," Ron stared out window at the houses and fields flashing by. "You never get any chance to cook something original because everything's been done already. And everybody's expecting big things, big dishes out of me 'cause I'm the sixth in our family to go to Hogwarts. But I hardly got any time in the kitchen. There's really no room," he said sadly, "with all of us packed in there."

After a few moments of silence as Harry considered this and Ron continued to look away from him, Harry tried, "Er, what are these?" He held out a box of what seemed to be colorful little cookies sandwiched together.

"Oh, those?" Ron brightened, "Those are Margie Mott's Every Flavor Macarons! I haven't had them in ages!"

Harry looked at the pastries skeptically. "They aren't really every flavor, are they?"

"They are. So you want to be careful with those," Ron warned. "See, there are ordinary ones like chocolate and peppermint and hazelnut, but there are also spinach and liver and tripe macarons. George swears he got a booger-flavored one once."

Ron carefully picked up a green macaron and bit into a corner.

"Urgh," he made a face, "See? Sprouts."

They were having a good time eating through the macarons and guessing at which flavors they were getting when there was a knock on the door of their compartment.

"Have you seen a toad at all?" said a teary round-faced boy.

Harry and Ron shook their heads.

The boy began to wail. "I've lost him! Someone's probably made him into cuisses de grenouille by now!" He ran off.

"Poor guy," said Ron, "though I'd probably go for frog legs myself right now…"

At this time, the compartment door slid open again. The toadless boy was back again, but there was also a girl with him. She was already wearing her Hogwarts apron and chef's hat, which seemed to be having a hard time containing her bushy brown hair.

"Has anyone seen a toad? Neville's lost one," she said bossily.

"We already said we hadn't seen it," said Ron, but the girl was examining his iron pot instead.

"You know that's not good for the food," she said.

"Huh?"

"All your equipment has coating on it that can be scraped off by a utensil! See those parts where the silver shows through?" She pointed. "That means that the coating got in your dishes. It's really not that healthy and quite unsanitary. Anyway, you should get that replaced. I've been using stainless steel pots, and it's all worked well for me. Nobody in my family's a chef at all, so I was ever so pleased when I was accepted into Hogwarts. It's the best culinary school there is, I've heard. I've learned all the course books by heart, of course; I just hope it will be enough to make up for my lack of an immersive cooking environment—by the way, I'm Hermione Granger. Who are you?"

She said this all insanely quickly.

"I'm Ron Weasley," Ron muttered, seeming quite offended.

"Harry Potter," said Harry.

"Are you really?" said Hermione. "I know all about you—read all the papers, of course—but you're also in _Modern Culinary History _and _The Rise and Fall of the Traditional Cuisine _and _Great Culinary Events of the Twentieth Century_. I got those books just for a bit of light reading, but they provided an ever so insightful view on the culinary world of today."

"Right," said Harry. He was feeling quite dazed by now.

"Do either of you know what house you'll be in? I hope I'm in Griffindor; it sounds like the best by far. I hear Dumbledore himself was in it, but I suppose Ravenclaw would be okay as well...We probably should go and look for Neville's toad. You two should put on your aprons soon. I expect we'll be there soon." And she left, taking the other boy with her.

Harry felt a little like he'd been hit by a tornado.

"Um," he turned to Ron, who also looked stunned, "what are the houses?"

~~~0~~~

After Ron's brief explanation of Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin, and about a quarter of the way through his instructions on how to dice an onion with the least chance of chopping off your own fingertips, the compartment door slid open yet again, this time letting in three boys, one of them being the pale boy Harry met at Madam Malkin's. He was looking at Harry the same way a cat looks at a particularly juicy mouse.

"They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter's in this compartment. So it's you, is it?" he said.

"Yes," Harry replied hesitantly.

"I didn't introduce myself in the alley," the boy sniffed imperiously, "My name is Malfoy, Draco Malfoy."

Ron began to snicker but tried to hide it by clearing his throat as Malfoy turned to glare at him.

"Think my name's funny, do you?" he looked Ron up and down before sneering. "No need to ask who you are. Red hair, hand-me-down clothes, that garbage pot: you're obviously a Weasley."

He looked back at Harry. "You'll find that some chef families are much better than others, Potter. Don't go making friends with the wrong sort." Malfoy then tripped into one of the boys standing by his side as the train jerked abruptly and began to slow.

Ron didn't hide his chuckle this time. Malfoy pinked.

"C-Come on, Crabbe, Goyle. We'll find much more superior company elsewhere." Malfoy glared at the compartment in general before marching down the train.

Harry closed the door and glanced at Ron, who was now looking at him awkwardly.

"Erm—you, you don't believe Malfoy, right?" said Ron, picking at his threadbare apron.

"Not at all," Harry said firmly, "I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself."

Ron smiled thankfully.

~~~0~~~

Hogwarts was even more fantastic than Harry could have imagined. For one thing, the school was a castle. It also smelled like the most amazing food in the world, as some of the other children had also noticed. Many were drooling.

The first years were led into the entrance hall by Professor McGonagall, a tall chef with her black hair tightly pinned up under a hair net. Harry gawked at the antiquated, yet elegant, furnishings (The castle was huge!) as the professor began to speak.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," said Professor McGonagall. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but first you must all be sorted into your houses. Your house will be like your family here at Hogwarts, so the Sorting will put you in the house of which your cooking has most in common. This is important because you will take classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house's dormitory, eat and prepare meals with your house, and spend free time in your house common room."

"The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history, and each has produced outstanding chefs in all styles. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will win you house pints, while rule breaking will cause you to lose house pints. At the end of the year, the house with the greatest volume of pints is awarded the house cup, which is a great honor. I hope each of you becomes a credit to whichever house becomes yours."

"The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a couple minutes. While you are waiting, I suggest that you all smarten yourselves up a bit." Professor McGonagall's eyes lingered on some of the soiled aprons and lopsided hats.

"I will return for you when we are ready," she said. "Please wait quietly." The Professor entered the Great Hall.

Harry swallowed nervously and tried to brush his unruly hair under his chef's hat. He turned to Ron, whose freckles stood out even more against his pale face.

"How do they sort us into houses anyway?" he questioned.

"Some sort of cooking exam, I think. Fred said you had to burn the Hogwart's insignia into a filet mignon, but I think he was joking."

Harry's heart started pounding in his chest, so loud he expected Ron could probably hear it. The dread he felt when Hagrid came with his Hogwarts letter was slowly returning. What if his cooking wasn't good enough? He hardly knew anything about proper cooking, after all. Would he be sent back to the Dursley's?

Thankfully, Harry did not have a long time to remain in this line of thought. Professor McGonagall had returned and began ushering the students, walking neatly in a row, into the Great Hall.

The Great Hall was an amazing-looking room. It was lit by thin chandeliers that had been strung on wires stretching all across the ceiling. There were four long tables where the students were sitting, and another long table at the head of the hall for the teachers. Looking up, Harry could see that the ceiling was made of glass, so the night sky shone through. It was quite enchanting, and if he didn't know better, he would have said the Great Hall had been made using magic.

The first years were led to the front of the teacher's table where they waited in silence as Professor McGonagall guided a wizened old man to the front of the students. His clothes were dirty and frayed, his hair raggedy. Aunt Petunia wouldn't have let him inside the house.

_Maybe they had to feed him_, Harry considered, but the man didn't look like a connoisseur of cooking at all. Everyone was staring at the old man, perhaps because he seemed so out of place in the grandeur of the Great Hall, so Harry stared, too. For a few seconds, the man did nothing. Then, he opened his mouth and started to sing:

"_Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,_

_But don't judge on what you see,_

_I'll eat myself if you can find_

_A better analyst than me._

_You can keep your suits pressed,_

_Your diplomas kept and framed,_

_For I'm a master psychologist,_

_And my talent can't be chained._

_There's nothing hidden in your head _

_The Sorting cannot see,_

_So try it out and I will tell you_

_Where you ought to be._

The man took a deep, wheezy breath and continued singing.

_You might belong in Gryffindor,_

_Where dwell the brave at heart,_

_Their daring innovation_

_Set Gryffindors apart;_

_You might belong in Hufflepuff_

_To homestyle they are loyal_

_They do not need fancy tools_

_They're unafraid of toil;_

_Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,_

_They always use their minds_

_If it's balanced meals you seek,_

_You will find your kind;_

_Or perhaps in Slytherin_

_Where surprise is your friend,_

_Those cunning cooks use anything_

_to trick the palate in the end._

_So come along! Don't be afraid!_

_And don't get in a tizzy_

_These ingredients you know (bar two or three)_

_before the wine makes you dizzy!"_

At this, the whole hall burst into applause and laughter. The old man bent over to catch his breath, as Professor McGonagall looked on disapprovingly. She was now holding a long roll of parchment.

"When I call your name, you will go with this man into the Sorting room," she nodded towards a door Harry had missed when he had looked over the Great Hall, "and go through the Sorting Ceremony." She cleared her throat, "Abbott, Hannah!"

A girl with blonde pigtails walked apprehensively out of line and followed the man into the room. After a couple minutes, they both exited.

"HUFFLEPUFF!" shouted the man.

Harry still had no idea what the Sorting was, but he couldn't help but feel sick regardless. As Professor McGonagall went down the alphabet, Harry felt worse and more anxious as she got closer to his name. The brim of his hat seemed to be restricting blood flow to his brain. He felt very lightheaded with worry.

Finally, the professor called out, "Potter, Harry!"

Whispers immediately started springing forth. As Harry trudged over to the Sorting room, trying his best not to trip on anything and make a fool out of himself, he glanced over his shoulder at the other students. Most, if not all of them, were craning their necks to look at him. Harry quickly whipped his head back around. If he had been feeling sick before, he felt positively ill now.

The Sorting room was dimly lit and contained only a table and four chairs, all of which were filled with other delicate-looking old people. The singing man stood in front the table and lifted a basket on top. He beckoned Harry closer.

"Sort these ingredients," he said with a smile.

Harry was flabbergasted. "That's it?" he said incredulously.

The man nodded.

Harry used shaking hands to open the basket. Inside was an amazing variety of fruits, vegetables, meats, wines, and spices. He carefully dumped them onto the table.

Examining the cooking materials closely, Harry couldn't help but realize that the man hadn't specified which way to sort the ingredients. He looked up to ask, but met the gaze of one of the men sitting in the chair. His face was bloodless and stern. Harry went back to the ingredients.

Eventually, he decided to sort the ingredients into groups that were based on dishes he would make using them. Harry _did_ recognize most of the ingredients after all, and many of the meals he had made at the Dursley's used the same stuff. He moved hesitantly at first, but gradually became quick and confident in gathering the ingredients into five different piles. For the ingredients he didn't know, like some of the spices and wines, he sniffed them and put them in the groups where he thought they would fit the best with the dish.

Harry did this until he ran out of ingredients to sort. The singing man clapped his hands gleefully as Harry stepped back. He felt like he had come out of a trance, and suddenly the gravity of the situation hit him at full force again. As the singing man and the four people stood up to examine his piles, Harry could feel his stomach doing flips. He tried to discreetly wipe his sweaty palms on his apron.

The Sorting people were mumbling. "Difficult. Very difficult…plenty of courage...not a bad mind either...Oh! See this, this here. There's talent, oh yes...A nice thirst to prove himself, hmmm…"

Harry was very puzzled on how they were getting this from groups of ingredients.

"He could be great in Slytherin," the bloodless man said stiffly. "Slytherin would help him on his way to greatness; you can see it here."

"Yes," said the another man, who was sporting a peculiar ruffled collar, "but is that where he would prefer to go?"

The last man chortled and rubbed his chubby hands. "I believe he could go to Slytherin or Gryffindor house; he would do well in both."

The cloaked woman said nothing. The singing man smiled again.

The bloodless man glared at the collared man. "It does not matter where the boy wants to go. The Sorting is purposed to put the students where they will become the best they can be."

"Yes," admitted the other, "but can he become the best he can be in such an _environment_ that Slytherin contains right now?"

"He didn't come here to make friends." snapped the bloodless man.

"_He_ is standing right here," said Harry, still feeling anxious but also very hungry and irritated at the lack of progress in the decision-making process. He blushed slightly when all five of the Sorting people turned to stare at him.

"Well, Harry Potter," said the singing man slowly, "which will it be?"

~~~0~~~

Harry and the man entered the Great Hall to absolute silence. All the students turned towards them expectantly. Even the professors seemed to be unduly interested in the results of his Sorting. The old man glanced up at him and whispered.

"Well, if you're sure. Better be..."

He took a deep breath.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

The Great Hall exploded in cheers.

~~~0~~~

Still, later, when Harry was lying in bed listening to Ron's snoring, the bloodless man's words echoed in his mind.

_Slytherin. Slytherin could help him on his way to greatness._

_To greatness_, Harry repeated over and over in his head. When he slept, he dreamed of broken glass and sobbing.


	3. Chapter 3:The Boy Who Dueled

The Boy Who Dueled

"Is that him?"

"Who?"

"The kid next to the tall one with the ketchup down his front."

"With the cheese on his glasses?"

"Did you see his face?"

"Did you see his scar?"

Harry took off his glasses and picked the mozzarella from the rim. He had been too distracted by the disaster of his first time working in a busy kitchen to notice it before. It might have been because he hadn't been, and still wasn't, used to working on a line with so many people moving about carrying hot plates, but his inattention was probably more due to the fact that he couldn't walk anywhere without people whispering about him. It made it much harder to navigate the Hogwarts castle.

However, finding the way to his classrooms wasn't even the most taxing part of school; there was also the classes themselves. Just as Harry had feared, there was a lot more to cooking than just taking ingredients and throwing them on a plate.

They had to study different types of fruits, vegetables, and meats every Wednesday evening and learn their properties as well as how to identify them. Three times a week, they went out to the greenhouses behind the castle to study Farming with the head of Hufflepuff, Professor Sprout. There they learned how to tend to different plants to make them bear the best, freshest produce.

The most boring class by far was History of Cooking, which was taught by an exceedingly elderly man. Professor Binns had been a semi-successful line cook in his early days, but he had lost all that passion for food many years ago. His lectures were so dull, he put himself to sleep on more than one occasion.

Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher and head of Ravenclaw house, was a rather short man who needed a stool to see over his kitchen counter. During their first class when he took roll call, he squeaked excitedly when he reached Harry's name and ended up toppling into a bag of sugar.

Sharp and clever, McGonagall was about as no-nonsense as her tightly pinned hair. She gave them a talking to the moment they started her first class.

"Baking and nutrition are some of the most important and dangerous cooking topics you will learn here at Hogwarts," she aimed a level stare at the whole room. "Anyone caught fooling around in this class will leave and not come back. You have been warned."

She then proceeded to pull out a freshly-baked pizza from under her desk and handed out samples to all the students. They were all very impressed and couldn't wait to get started, but soon realized they weren't going to be baking complex goods anytime soon. After taking in depth notes, they were each handed a sack of ingredients and told to bake a loaf of banana bread. Only Hermione Granger had made something that resembled a healthy, delicious loaf; McGonagall showed the class how the bread's crust resisted prodding and gave Hermione a rare smile.

Most everyone had been looking forward to Cooking Techniques the most, but Professor Quirrell's lessons seemed to be kind of a joke. His classroom smelled heavily of garlic, unappetizing to even the most ardent garlic fan, and he wore an odd turban in lieu of a chef's hat. He talked a lot about the award-winning dishes he had composed in an African prince's domain, but when Seamus Finnigan asked eagerly what kind of dishes they were, Quirrell pinked and redirected the conversation to the weather. He seemed to be afraid of even his own flambés.

Despite his worries, Harry found that he wasn't too far behind everyone else. Loads of people came from non-cooking oriented households like he did, and there was so much to learn that people like Ron didn't really have too much of a head start.

On Friday, Harry and Ron were finally able to get to the Great Hall early enough to eat breakfast while it was still hot. They did this by not getting lost for once. It was a great achievement.

~~~0~~~

Harry liked soups. They were easy to throw together and didn't need much froufrou presentation. Too bad the Soups and Sanitation lesson turned out to be the worst thing so far he had experienced at Hogwarts.

Soups and Sanitation took place down in one of the underground kitchens, which meant it was dark and cold and smelled sharply of lemon cleaner. It would have seemed nasty enough without all the pickled vegetables lining the walls.

What unsettled Harry the most was the fact that the professor, Snape, seemed to really _hate_ him. When Snape looked at him, his eyes were frigid and flat; they made Harry think of empty steamers. The feeling that Draco Malfoy was trying to drill a hole in his head with the power of his stare didn't help either. Harry hadn't talked to him since the train.

"You are here to learn the stringent standards of proper sanitation and exact art of soup-making," Professor Snape began. He seemed to be attempting to channel Batman and Gordon Ramsey in equal amounts. The class was silent. "As there is little foolish pan-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is cooking. I don't expect you to truly understand the beauty of the softly simmering stock pot with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of a shiny counter, killing bacteria, preventing food-sickness...I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stop death—if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

More silence followed this speech. Harry was reluctantly impressed by the amount of alliteration while Ron raised his eyebrows skeptically. Goyle and some of the other Slytherins seemed to be resisting the urge to applaud. Hermione Granger was on the edge of her seat, looking desperate to prove that she wasn't a dunderhead.

Snape suddenly whipped his head around to stare at Harry, who was very unnerved by this. "Potter!" he spat. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

"Something terrible," answered Harry instinctively. "Sir," he added.

Snape's face darkened.

All in all, Harry lost 15 pints for Gryffindor in one lesson. However, he did brew a delicious chicken noodle soup, even with the distraction of Neville Longbottom somehow managing to burn water.

~~~0~~~

Harry had never tried to avoid a person with more single-mindedness than he did Draco Malfoy. Malfoy seemed to have an incessant urge to corner Harry and make him his friend. Ron had suggested many times to just punch Malfoy in the gut and tell him that no one wanted to be friends with a stuck up git, but Harry didn't really wish to make more enemies, especially in a school where butcher knives were always in reach.

Thankfully, the first-year Gryffindors and Slytherins only shared the Soups and Sanitations class, so Harry was able to duck out of talking with Malfoy much of the time. This was until they were told that Physical Education would begin on Thursday—and Gryffindor and Slytherin would be learning together.

Harry, and most of the rest of the first years, had been dreading this lesson wholeheartedly. After years of staying inside to compose recipes and sampling their own cooking, not many of Hogwarts students could be called physically fit in any way. Harry had just never liked gym classes. Dudley would always find a way to make him left out.

Nevertheless, at three-thirty that afternoon, Harry, Ron, and the other Gryffindors tromped sourly onto the grounds for their first Physical Education lesson. It was a clear, breezy day, which meant that it was at least pleasant to be outside in their ill fitting gym uniforms, though some of the girls appeared horrified to be wearing such a fashion faux pas out in public.

The Slytherins were already there, looking more or less as disgruntled as the Gryffindors. Their teacher, Madam Hooch, had arrived as well. She had short, gray hair, and yellow eyes the same shade as a beaten egg.

"Well, what are you all waiting for?" she barked. "Everyone line up in front of the track. Come on, hurry up."

The first years scrambled into a shaky row.

"Today I will be testing your 100 meter dash. Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off the starting block and run as hard as you can. Get ready, boy," she said to Neville, who had been unfortunately shoved into the first slot in line.

"On my whistle—three—two—"

But Neville, being very nervous about running in front of such a large group, pushed off the starting block early and was unable to regain his footing. He landed flat on his face, skidding a few inches across the track.

Madam Hooch bent over Neville, looking very concerned. The class hissed as they saw how Neville had skinned his knees, elbows, and nose. He looked quite terrible.

Madam Hooch sighed. "Come on, boy. It's all right, up you get."

She turned to the other students.

"None of you move a single step while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave the equipment where it is or you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say jambalaya!"

She carefully marched Neville, teary eyed and hobbling, back to the castle.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Malfoy burst into laughter.

"Did you see his face, the great lump?"

The other Slytherins joined in, though some seemed to be more laughing out of relief that they no longer had to run the timed dash.

"Shut up, Malfoy," snapped Parvati Patil, but Malfoy had already been distracted.

"Look!" he said, picking a ball out of the equipment bins. "It's one of those kickballs." He scowled at it. "I wonder if we can skip class if we just puncture them all."

"No, stop it, Malfoy!" shrieked Hermione. "You can't damage school property! We'll _all_ get in trouble!" Everyone stopped talking to watch.

Malfoy smiled nastily.

"I'll just put them where no one can reach them. How about the lake?" He hurled it as far as he could.

Though Malfoy did have a good arm on him, as the ball went sailing into the air, his aim was as bad as hollandaise sauce on fish. The kickball wasn't speeding towards the lake; it was heading to one of Hagrid's vineyards. His grapes were going to be crushed.

Harry took off running. Blood was pounding in his ears. The scenery went flying past him, and in a rush of pure joy, Harry found that he could do something that wasn't related to cooking. This was _wonderful. _Luckily Malfoy had thrown the kickball very high, or else Harry would never had made it in time. He stretched out his arms, leaped into the air, and plucked the ball from the sky, tumbling a safe distance away from Hagrid's gardens.

He stood up hurriedly and fistpumped. He could hear cheering back where the rest of the class was waiting, but also—

"HARRY POTTER!"

His heart sank. Professor McGonagall was running towards him. However, she seemed more...excited, rather than angry. She took him by the arm and pulled him away into the castle, much to the unhappiness of his fellow Gryffindors.

They marched along the corridors, Harry feeling extremely confused and worried, until they reached a classroom. Professor McGonagall poked her head inside the door.

"Excuse me, Professor Flitwick, could I borrow Wood for a moment?"

Wood? Harry was bewildered. Was Wood a cane she was going to use on him?

Much to his relief, Wood turned out to be a burly fifth-year boy, who looked about as puzzled as Harry coming out of the classroom. McGonagall ushered them into an empty classroom before pulling Wood to the side.

Harry watched them whisper to each other, Wood brightening more and more as time went on. Whatever they were conferring about, it seemed that it wasn't going to get him into trouble. Harry relaxed a little, though it was hard to do when both Wood and Professor McGonagall kept pointing at him mid-sentence. Finally, looking absolutely ecstatic, Wood raced towards Harry, who stilled in shock. Wood knelt to look Harry in the face and grasped one of Harry's hands in both his own.

"Potter," Wood gazed into Harry's eyes with a look of utmost severity. "Have you ever heard of American football?"

~~~0~~~

Malfoy lifted his arm in a grand sweeping motion and pointed at Ron dramatically. "I challenge you to a cooking duel. Pans only—no dessert."

Harry's pie dropped off his fork, which had been halfway to his mouth, and into his lap. He glanced at Ron, who looked surprisingly serious.

Malfoy stared at Harry. "What's the matter? Never heard of a cooking duel before?"

"Of course he has," said Ron scathingly. "He'll be my sous. Who's yours?"

Malfoy eyed Harry skeptically before turning to Crabbe and Goyle, sizing them up.

"Crabbe," he decided. "Midnight all right? We'll meet you in the second practice kitchen. That one's always unlocked." He then stalked off back to the Slytherin table, leaving Harry gaping.

He faced Ron. "What _is _a cooking duel?" said Harry. "And what do you mean, I'm your sous?"

"Well, the sous chef is there to help the dueller prepare ingredients for their dish," said Ron nonchalantly. Catching the way Harry's expression froze, he quickly added, "But it isn't really so complicated, you know, just chopping vegetables and stuff. The most me and Malfoy will cook is probably a salmon, anyway. Neither of us knows enough to do anything too taxing."

"But," said Harry anxiously, "why did he challenge you to a cooking duel in the first place?" Harry had made sure that Ron was avoiding Malfoy as religiously as he was.

"Well," Ron took a bite of his steak, "during gym class after you left, Malfoy challenged me for your hand in friendship."

Harry sputtered incomprehensibly. "My _what_?"

Ron looked unperturbed. "Your friendship."

"But—but how are you going to determine who deserves that through cooking?"

"If his dish proves that he's sincere enough, it'll be fine," Ron shrugged. "You can always tell a chef's true emotions through his cooking."

"Why does Malfoy want to be my friend at all?" Harry groaned desperately, his head in his hands. It wasn't as if they had interacted besides a few unpleasant conversations.

"Dunno," said Ron through a mouthful of potatoes. "Who really understands the Slytherins anyway?" He reached for the blueberry pie.

Harry was beginning to think that he was going to spend at least half his time in the cooking world being totally and utterly flabbergasted.

~~~0~~~

"Half-past eleven," Ron whispered, "we'd better go."

They pulled on their aprons, picked up their bags of cooking equipment, and crept towards the door of the Gryffindor common room. And they had almost gotten there, too, when a voice rang out from one of the armchairs by the still dimly glowing fireplace.

"I can't believe you two are going to do this."

It was Hermione Granger, holding an iPhone she was using as a flashlight and wearing a floral snuggie. She was frowning.

"_You!_" hissed Ron. "Go back to bed!"

"I should have told your brother," Hermione scolded, "Percy—he'd put a stop to this."

Harry had never met someone his age that was so much of a nag.

"Don't you _dare_ do it! You'll lose all the pints I gained from Professor McGonagall for knowing about measuring calories by burning! Do you _want_ Slytherin to win the house cup? I swear, boys are so selfish!"

Ron was beginning to look rather like a kettle that was going to boil very soon, so Harry ushered him towards the door with a careful, "Come on."

Hermione stood up. "At least!" she cried, but then seemed to remember that most of the castle was asleep and lowered her tone. "At least take me with you. Cooking duels need witnesses anyway to be more legitimate. I read that in _Chefs and Duels: the Art of Battle by the Pan_." She sniffed condescendingly. "Either way, I won't get in trouble. Witnesses are obligated by circumstance to attend duels and cannot be faulted for any misdemeanors accompanied with this duty."

Harry and Ron had stopped listening to her as soon as she mentioned _Chefs and Duels_ and were halfway down the corridor already.

The three of them tiptoed through the extensive hallway system and stepped cautiously down stairways until they reached the practice kitchens. With every small sound, Harry expected to be caught by a teacher, but they encountered no one. He wondered about this somewhat lax security, but reasoned that it was expected considering the size and complexity of the Hogwarts castle.

The second practice kitchen was empty and still. Malfoy and Crabbe had obviously not arrived yet. The stacks of white plates gleamed as the fluorescent lights hit them when Ron flicked the light switch. There were splotches of red on the wall which Harry at first assumed was blood but instead was actually marinara sauce gone wrong. Harry, Ron, and Hermione perched on some of the wooden stools surrounding the island. The minutes ticked by.

"Do you think he stood us up?" Harry muttered.

"I don't know," replied Ron. "But he's going to get a penalty if he's any more late."

Suddenly, there was a noise in the next room that made them jump. Harry had only one moment to panic, thinking it was Filch and that they were all going to be sent home on the train tomorrow, when someone started to speak.

It was Malfoy, with Crabbe carrying along his equipment. Harry sighed.

"I thought you left us to be caught by a professor!" he blurted out, completely cutting off what Malfoy was going to say.

Malfoy gave him a weird look. "Why would I do that? No proper chef ever runs away from a cooking duel, not to mention set one up just so he could frame the other participants for something," he snorted. "It's just not done."

Harry stared incredulously. He glanced around the kitchen.

Ron and Hermione also were shooting him pitying looks, as if saddened by his lack of faith and knowledge of cooking duel etiquette. Harry heaved a sigh.

"Well," Malfoy clapped his hands together and nodded at Crabbe, "let's get started."

Of course, they hadn't even turned on their stoves when Filch really did arrive.

~~~0~~~

"How did he know we were there?" Ron whispered violently.

"He probably saw the lights and figured it out," said Hermione.

"Shut up, Granger," Malfoy hissed.

Harry wheezed and tried to catch his breath.

The four of them had immediately sprinted out the kitchen door as soon as Filch opened it, seeing how he was temporarily blinded by the lights. Harry had the foresight to grab Ron's bag of equipment and had hesitated surprising little before taking Malfoy's bag as well. Crabbe had been left behind.

They had ran upstairs, galloped down one corridor, ducked behind a tapestry depicting a woman flipping pancakes, and hurtled into a chamber that was certainly far away from the practice kitchens.

"I knew this was a bad idea; I _knew _it!"

"Then why did you come along!"

"Because of Chapter 4: Section D of _Chefs and Duels_! Mallory states that, '_On the occasion that one is near a pair of dueling chefs, it is proper to_—"

"Shut _up_, Granger"

"Hey, uh, guys…" Harry said.

"WHAT," the others bit out in unison. Harry jumped. It was kind of creepy. He pointed towards behind where they were all standing, drawing attention to the rest of the room.

It looked like a long, tall hallway. There was a laser maze directly in front of them; behind that, a gap that looked like it went down a long way. There also seemed to be machine guns attached towards the ceiling, though those seemed deactivated, thankfully. At the end of the chamber, there was a spotlight beaming down upon a glass case, in which there was one piece of paper. It all looked very spy movie.

"Uh, I think we should get out here," breathed Ron.

The rest of them nodded, and they all had crept a quarter of the way towards the door when a loud bell noise started to sound. Harry flinched and surveyed the room, but the noise seemed to be coming from their direction. His stomach sank as the realization came over him. Hermione's phone had begun to ring.

The guns perked up and turned to face them, muzzle first.

Malfoy screamed. The four of them scrambled out the door and slammed it shut.

~~~0~~~

Later, when they were all safely ensconced in their beds, Harry thought about the chamber and the piece of paper that had so many defenses in front of it. It looked like they had found out where and what the package Hagrid had taken from Gringotts was. He wasn't sure that it had been worth the terror.


End file.
